To One in Paradise
by Sirry-Addict
Summary: [And all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams are where thy gray eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams—in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams.] The War isn't over yet, and Harry Potter still has lessons to learn. SLASH HPSB


**To One in Paradise**

**Chapter One**

Harry Potter dreams of a tattered black veil and the things he could have changed.

He dreams of Remus Lupin's arms clenched about his waist, and he thinks, _No, this can't be happening,_ before realizing that it is—that it already _has._

He dreams of whispers in the dark and a cold, cold grave, and he knows that his time is borrowed.

He dreams of scars and green light and hope and wakes with tears in his eyes and wonders if it's all truly over.

x

"Tired, Harry?" Lupin asked as he poured himself a cup of still steaming tea.

It was quiet in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and neither of them had ever quite gotten over the soft echoes that seemed to follow them everywhere in the house; Lupin winced as he set the teapot down.

Harry sat at the kitchen table in Muggle clothing, picking off the wrapper of a melted Chocolate Frog and shrugged. He'd been tired since he was fourteen—it was a question that honestly didn't merit an answer.

But this was Remus Lupin, and Remus Lupin deserved _something_ because Harry owed him so much more.

"Not really. Just warm."

Lupin left it there, sitting at the table, two seats down from Harry and occasionally glancing at the teen from above the rim of his chipped mug and out of the corner of his eye.

It was late summer and, although the kitchen was on the lowest level of the house, the room was sticky with summer heat and humidity. Harry was having little luck with his wrapper peeling, but was unwilling to leave the coolest spot he'd found in days. He almost resented Lupin's presence on principle that afternoon, but he held his tongue and tried to busy himself with his candy.

Wiping away a bead of sweat threatening to run over his eyebrow, Harry slouched even more onto the table and tried to ignore the almost silence in the room and the way Lupin was tapping his heel against the chair leg.

Harry wished it would rain, if only to cover the echoes.

Finally liberating the candy from its wrapper, Harry flicked the sticky paper to the edge of the table and watched with disinterest as the half-melted Frog attempted a feeble jump. It didn't make it very far and Harry sighed, picking it up with care; he bit a leg off and muttered, "I hate summer."

Lupin made a sound of agreement to his left and took another sip of his tea—how he could handle such a drink on such a day, Harry honestly had no clue. It'd been well above eighty degrees since ten that morning. Harry would have much preferred to have a cool glass of lemonade, but that could have been just him.

"There hasn't been much activity as of late," Lupin began by way of conversation, at length. He set down his teacup and half turned to Harry. "The Ministry is on high alert."

Harry searched the man's face for any betrayal of emotion and eventually shrugged, swallowing the Frog's other leg. "They're probably keeping low since Malfoy's arrest last month. Dear ol' Lucius must be tearing them apart."

A sardonic smile played at the corner of Lupin's mouth and he shook his head. "It's terribly sad; he was the same age as you."

"You choose your own thing, I guess." Harry shrugged again and shifted the Frog over to his other hand, licking his fingers slowly. "I'd wondered how long it'd take him to get caught. Last time I saw him, he was looking pretty bad."

"They'll want you to testify."

"They always do." Harry bit off the head of the Frog and chewed for a moment, thoughtfully. Draco Malfoy had been added to the ever-growing list of Death Eaters caught, but even as they caught more and more every passing month, the number still at large kept growing.

It made Harry wonder what in the hell was so much better about the other side of the fight. Voldemort was gone, so where was the appeal?

There was a clink of china beside him, and Lupin stood with a sigh, rolling his shoulders as he crossed the kitchen. He was dressed in his best robes, Harry realized, and he remembered the man mentioning something about a job interview a few days before.

Harry was curious as to what happened to the last job the man had had, but didn't ask. He finished the rest of his Frog and nodded in farewell as Lupin left the room.

"Good luck."

"Yes, thank you."

x

"I'm sorry, Harry; I didn't mean to be so late…Professor Sprout held me over until I could recite all of the uses for Wolfsbane backwards," Neville Longbottom tumbled out of the fire place in the study of Grimmauld Place with a self-deprecating, self-announcing snort.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the teen stumbling out of the hearth, and set aside the book he'd been curled up with in the armchair by the window.

He hadn't been expecting to see Neville, or anyone for that matter, until Wednesday, and said as much.

Neville, who had been brushing off the dust and ash from his robes, looked at Harry with a raised eyebrow himself. He chewed at the corner of his bottom lip for a moment with a pained expression and stated slowly, "Um, Harry. It's _Thursday._"

Harry, to his credit, didn't react to the news with much surprise. Here, in Grimmauld, he lost track of time for days; it wasn't unusual, but he could have sworn he'd looked at the magical calendar today, and that it had said 'Monday' quite clearly. If that was the case, he'd have to get Lupin to fix the thing again—something about the magic and the wards in the house just didn't mix well with the practically spelled items.

"I guess it is. Sorry, Neville. You know how it is." Harry stood from his chair, stretched for a moment, reaching for the ceiling. "I think the calendar's gone wrong again," he explained, bringing his arms down sharply.

"That's fine. But I really am sorry that I'm late."

Neville finished rubbing the ashes off of his cuffs and shrugged, still watching Harry with a wary expression; he'd spent seven years living in the same dorm as the other teen, and this new version of Harry, the post-war version, scared him sometimes—he'd seen the power, he knew what had happened to Voldemort.

"Don't be," Harry waved it off, and motioned to the teapot on the desk in the corner. It had been spelled warm, but Harry had no clue as to how long it had been there. Lupin had probably left it for him, but that had been hours ago. "Tea?"

"No, thanks, I don't have much time. Professor Sprout wants me back before dinner."

"Okay, um," Harry looked around the room for a moment, realized that the chair that usually occupied the space next to the armchair had disappeared again, and muttered; he transfigured the desk into a hulking wooden chair and sat in it, gesturing to the armchair. "How's Professor Sprout doing?"

Neville sat in the armchair, but with some trepidation. His eyes were flitting about the room in unease, and Harry couldn't blame him for his reluctance; Grimmauld irked the hell out of most of the people to walk through the doors, him included.

"She's better; the anti-venom potions she's been taking have helped. But she's still pretty bad sometimes. I'm lucky; this week she's been able to get through most of what I'll need for the first part of the year."

Harry poured himself a cup of tea from the set now setting against the leg of his chair and smiled a bit. "That's really good to hear." And it was. Professor Sprout's help had been invaluable during the fight at Hogwarts, and Harry didn't think they would have made it if it hadn't been for her plants.

She was a nice woman. She didn't deserve what had happened to her.

Neville picked at the buttons on his cuffs and smiled a bit, too. "Yeah, it is."

They sat in silence for a few moments, with Harry sipping at the almost too strong tea, and Neville trying his hardest to not focus on the bookshelf behind Harry, or the tear in the armchair beneath his elbow. There were funny stains around that tear and, although _he_ knew it was only coffee and could easily be spelled away, Harry was quite averse to getting rid of them.

Sirius had spilled that coffee, and had proceeded to laugh himself hysterical in the moments following. It had just been 'one of those days', if Harry remembered it right.

If he remembered _any_thing right, Harry mused.

It was obvious that as the silence progressed, Neville was working up his courage to say something to Harry, and Harry kept quiet, not wanting to scare him. Neville's light brown hair reflected the dingy light coming in through the grimy windows, and Harry focused on that instead of the teen's round face, waiting for his former dorm mate to come out with it.

It didn't take long.

Neville began chewing on his lips again, and he started in a small voice that Harry almost had to strain to hear. "Um, Harry, they're…that is…um," he paused, took a deep breath. "They've caught more Death Eaters. Ones that we know."

Neville _was_ looking rather pale, Harry realized; he remembered the last time Neville had come to see him at Grimmauld, and it had eventually turned out to be because…"They're holding them at Hogwarts," Harry finished, without much surprise.

Neville shifted uncomfortably, refusing to make eye contact. His answer was only a mumble, but Harry heard it clearly enough. "Yeah. They want you to identify them."

_Because I'm the only one to have seen all of them_, Harry knew.

It was Harry's turn to look down and fiddle with the cuffs of his robe. His heart skipped a few beats and he hated it—hated that this war still had a hold over him when his job was _done _and all he wanted was the chance to be alone and enjoy the quiet.

Neville noticed, unfortunately, and tried to placate his upset, stretching to place hand on Harry's arm. Harry held up a hand and sighed; "It's fine, Neville. I…knew it was coming sooner or later. How many are there?"

Neville's brown eyes went wide with something Harry couldn't quite name, and he shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted ruefully. "I...I didn't want to."

Harry didn't blame him. Personally, he would have preferred keeping any and all encounters with the Death Eaters to encounters where he wouldn't have to see the faces of people he _knew_, had talked to, and had been in the company of, but there was no getting around it.

"That's…all right," Harry started. He paused, a thought occurring to him, frowned, and continued quietly, "When do they want me to come up?"

Neville shrugged beneath his standard issue Hogwarts robe. "The headmistress didn't say, but I'm sure it'll be soon. They're not exactly happy, the Death Eaters." Harry waited for Neville to elaborate, but the anxious teen refused to go any farther. He looked up at Harry with shining eyes, and Harry tried his best not to flinch.

Neville was either looking to him for support or protection, but Harry was very much afraid that he could do neither. He'd failed before, and now was no different; it simply wasn't in his power to take care of anyone any longer.

"I'll send an owl to Professor McGonagall as soon as Hedwig gets back." Harry hadn't seen his owl in days, but he knew she was around. She'd come as soon as she knew she was needed, and Harry loved her for that—Hedwig, she'd never failed him.

"Okay, um…" Neville trailed off, visibly fumbling for a line of conversation. It had been months since Harry had talked to the young man, and even then it had only been for a few moments, a short visit with news of McGonagall's success in finding anti-venom for Professor Sprout.

It was only natural that Neville was curious about his life, Harry reminded himself. They had shared a dorm for seven years; even Harry had needed time to get used to the sudden isolation all over again. But that didn't stop him from being slightly resentful at the young man's interest; he sipped at his tea quietly and offered no lines of conversation.

These days, it was pretty much a given—Harry much preferred silence to discussion.

Neville fidgeted in the armchair, played with the cuffs that covered his knuckles, and tried not to stare at the various items in the room that should remain unidentified. Harry didn't remember the young man being quite so antsy in Hogwarts, but, then again, Harry didn't remember a lot of things. Sometimes, it was for the best.

"How are Ron and Hermione doing?" Neville eventually asked, rolling up his too long cuffs to take out his wand to poke at his thigh with.

Harry shrugged, peering into the depths of his remaining tea. He honestly didn't _know_ how his best friends were; they lived their own lives, trying to keep in touch as much as possible, but often too busy to sit down and tell him how their lives _were_. He missed them, yes, but was quite happy that they were moving on—they deserved so much more than the initial hand fate had dealt them.

"They're great; in the last letters I got from them, Hermione was studying in Rome, and Ron was helping his brothers with their company." Harry smiled a little, remembering the last little trinket Ron had mentioned the twins working on. "I'll tell them you asked."

Neville grinned, his round face having lost almost none of its boyishness over the years. "Thank you; I've tried to write Ron a few times, but the owls keep coming back."

"Fred and George probably keep trying to use something on them."

"Oh. I'd wondered about their feathers; sometimes they're a bit black." Neville tapped his knee with his wand, and the robe beneath it momentarily turned purple. His cheeks turned a bit pink and Harry had to smile.

"It's been a while since I've written Ron, so I don't know the exact charm, but he's set up something to protect his incoming mail. I'll get it for you when he writes next," Harry offered, finishing the last of his tea. "Are you sure you don't want any?" He motioned to the teapot as he bent to set his cup on the floor.

Neville eyed the teapot and shook his head. "Thank you, and no thanks. Um, I really have to go soon." He looked genuinely sorry, and Harry promised himself that he'd write the teen when he next felt like talking. Which wouldn't be soon, if the past held true, but it didn't matter--he was going to _try_ and make the effort, at least.

"That's okay. You're more than welcome to stop by, you know." Harry wanted to laugh at the irony of it—this house was so unwelcoming in itself that he rarely had visitors. He smiled at Neville instead, and if the other teen noticed any thing strange in that expression, he didn't say.

"Thank you. Um…I guess I'll go now." Neville didn't look too convinced of himself, and Harry stood from his transfigured chair when the other man stood from the armchair. He held out a hand and Neville looked slightly surprised as he took it. He shook Harry's hand slowly, and smiled. "It's good to see you, Harry. Especially now that things are almost…" He didn't finish, and he didn't have to.

Harry knew what he meant. _Now that things are almost over._

He wasn't so sure about that, himself, but he wouldn't be the one to say it. You wouldn't catch Harry Potter being the one to say that your efforts weren't exactly leading to the right outcome—he'd been told about the reality of a situation enough times to know that sometimes a little fantasy was good for you.

"It's good seeing you, too, Neville." And it was, despite Harry's lack of conversation or socialization skills. "Like I said, you're welcome anytime."

Neville nodded, taking back his hand. He took one last look around the room, trying his hardest to keep the relief from his features, and tucked his wand back into his robe. "Tell Professor Lupin I said hello?"

"Sure." Harry agreed, motioning to a pot on the top of the mantle. "Floo powder is in there. You'll have to take a bit more than usual though; it's old."

Neville took more than the usual amount, cupping it in his hand as he waved a farewell. With a blast of heat and the words, "Ministry of Magic!" he was gone, leaving Harry to his thoughts.

Harry transfigured the wooden chair back into a desk, placed the tea tray on top of it, and went back over to his armchair. He frowned down at the stain for a moment, before moving over to the window; it was still warm, and Harry had opened it in hopes of catching a stray breeze.

He hadn't had any luck, of course, but opening the grimy window was giving him the opportunity to sit in his armchair and watch the wind move through the overgrown backyard. Wildflowers were growing by the masses, and Harry couldn't bring himself to cut them down; he liked to think that if Padfoot were still alive, that he'd enjoy roaming through the grass, creating a nest of safety and freedom amongst the flowers.

Sighing, Harry sat back in the armchair, fingering the stain beneath his elbow; he looked away from the darkening backyard and his eyes alighted on the note Professor McGonagall had sent him a few days before. He reread it, and tried not to think about what all of this could mean.

_Harry,_

_I'm quite afraid that our suspicions were confirmed last week, and that there were several traces of Dark magic left on the school premises. After an initial sweep of the grounds, Professor Lupin has assured us that we've located all remnants and that future scans should prove to be safe for all staff members involved._

_Someone should be by within the week, most likely on Wednesday. Until then, I'd like to ask you to keep an eye on things in the London area; there have been several reports of suspected Death Eater activity in King's Cross. We're quite worried that there will be another attempt on the Hogwarts express._

_Thank you,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

x

_End Chapter One_

**Notes:**

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, etc, and I do not claim to. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.

_Jenn, thanks for being a friend, beta, and partner in crime all in one. :)_

_Many thanks go to Larissa for helping me with the original idea, and for saying she wouldn't mind a fucked up Sirius. 3_

_Thanks go to my betas, of course. :)_

_Please review! Your criticism can only make things better._


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